


Wrong End of the Rescue

by whizzy



Series: Black Helicopters [3]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-05
Updated: 2010-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-05 19:45:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whizzy/pseuds/whizzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"However, the fact remains that Dr McKay is now in possession of highly sensitive information regarding Stargate operations, and has exhibited a troubling tendency to disregard the Air Force's confidentiality in the past."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrong End of the Rescue

**Author's Note:**

> Chronologically, this takes place between parts one and two of Black Helicopters, but should be read after.

[Oh no, no no no.  Not like this.  Sheppard!  You're a coward and a son of a bitch!]

If only McKay knew.

John wonders if Rodney is aware that even though the connection appears broken, he can still hear everything Rodney transmits.  Probably not, guessing by the way panic and desperation kicks McKay's voice higher with every word.

[You hear me?  Sheppard!]

He can tell he second the scientist breaks; the last thing he says is so faint and wistful that it nearly breaks John too.  He folds the instructions for repairing the jumper, tucks them in his pocket, and scrubs his hands across his face.

Then he makes himself drop the hatch and get the hell off the ship, before he can call Rodney back to fuck up goodbye properly.

  


* * *

He just sits there for maybe an hour -- he gave up looking at his watch after the first few days of being stranded, recognizing when the compulsion to do so regularly became an obsession to do so constantly.  It started fucking with areas of his head he needs intact.  The tree trunk he's propped against is wide and solid, and every once in a while he tips his head back to peer up its height, as far as he can in the dark.  The perspective is funny, almost like he's up high looking down a pit, and okay, yeah, it's way too late to worry about the state of his sanity.

It's getting cold out here.  He's got a rattle in his chest that's headed toward pneumonia, but he knew that was a risk when he bound his ribs.  He doesn't know how bad they're busted; worse than he's let on to Rodney, that's for certain.  If nothing else, the tight wrap reminds him to move gingerly.  Well, when the pain doesn't remind him first.

The hatch is still open, but light doesn't escape through the jumper's cloak.  He reckons he can see a little farther up the tree each time he looks, until he's pretty sure he's found the sky -- the pinprick stars being scrubbed by overhanging pine boughs that murmur in the wind.

After that, he just sits there until the cold dark steals his ability to think.  Then, one better, until it starts to smudge thoughts he's already had right out of his head.  

When he goes inside at last to sleep, he crashes hard and fast, and doesn't dream.

  


* * *

Even with the hatch shut, he's shivering the next morning; the sound of his teeth chattering is what wakes him.  And oh yeah, definitely pneumonia.

Breakfast is the rest of his fresh water -- he won't need to restock it, because in another hour it won't matter one way or the other -- and the Hershey's bar he's been holding in reserve from the emergency kit.  Thankfully his fingers are too cold to melt the chocolate.  He needs calories badly enough that he'd lick every last smear off them, and they're none too clean.

He starts to glance at his watch, except he can't imagine why he would need to, and stops himself.  Then he remembers: he's going to radio home today.  Or blow himself to kingdom come.

Seven hundred hours.  Hammond isn't in his office until eight, on an ordinary day.  Please let there not be an emergency or a meeting in Washington or another of the million things that might keep him away.

He finds Rodney's directions, unfolds them and smooths the paper out.  Pretends his handwriting's always that ragged, just like he pretends he's warming up because the sun's out, not because he's running a fever.  He reads the instructions twice through before he's ready to attempt the repairs.

He's not afraid in the slightest.  The night before, when he just sat and blanked himself, he was putting himself in mission head space without even realizing it.  His actions flow now, deft and precise.  He wasn't sure he had this kind of focus left in him, but he's damned glad that he does.

After he gives the last crystal the last tap with the light pen, he shoves it in the slot without hesitation.  Backward, just like the directions say.  He's rewarded with an explosion of hissing, popping sparks, and real smoke from a real fire that he blasts out with the fire extinguisher he's now real happy he had ready.

"The ship can handle it, Rodney?  I wouldn't be too alarmed if you get some sparks or a burning smell, Rodney?   _You think?!_ " he shouts, and slams the extinguisher down so that he can take stock of the damage.

Everything's dark now, and he's completely blown his cool by yelling at a man who isn't even here, and that's enough to snap his focus; he's shaking.  Shaking but still alive, and he remembers that this is a contingency Rodney prepared him for.  So he leans over the pilot's seat to shut down all systems and power back up.

The ship shudders, like a patient in v-fib getting a jump from the paddles.  He doesn't let his mind stray too near the neural interface, yet he can still sense the distant mechanical agony.  There are more sparks, but nothing else seems ready to spontaneously combust, and eventually the lights struggle back on.   
_  
Ladies and gentlemen, we have a pulse.  
_   
The very first thing he does -- well, after collapsing in his seat -- is switch his radio over to the SGC's channel.  He recalls what Rodney said about others listening in.

"This is Sheppard calling the Mountain. I repeat, Sheppard to Mountain, please respond."

It's the gateroom technician who answers.  [Major Sheppard?  Is that you?]  What is his name again?  Harrison?  No, Harriman.

"Transmitting my IDC now," John says, and does.  And for about the millionth time in his career he's so fucking grateful for military protocol.  The instinct to adhere to it, the sheer force of routine, is probably all that's holding him intact.

He doesn't have to request General Hammond on the horn.  After a few seconds he's turned over to the man himself.  [Major Sheppard?  It's good to hear from you.  We were beginning to worry.]  The gentle understatement of his tone is belied by the sighs of relief John can hear in the background, and even some light applause.

"I'm very glad to hear from you too, sir.  And if this is a secure channel, I can tell you why."

[It is,] means go on.

"I touched down hard after suffering multiple system malfunctions.  The aircraft is in one piece, but damaged and not going anywhere under its own power.  I just managed to restore the radio today."

[And yourself?]

"Banged my head pretty hard, busted a few ribs.  And I sure would love a hot shower, a hot meal, and a warm bed."

[Major, help is on the way.]  Those have got to be the most glorious words in the whole English language.  [Prepare to transmit your coordinates on my signal.]

"There's just one thing before I do that, sir."  This is going to be the hardest part of the whole ordeal.  John's not sure how to come out and say it without just coming out and saying it.  Accusing your own is the most distasteful thing you can do in an organization that values -- hell, depends on -- integrity and trust.  "I suspect that the crash may have been intentional, that the aircraft may have been deliberately made to malfunction," he says flatly, and that's when he realizes that if it really was sabotage, he'd better never get his hands on the motherfucker responsible.

The situation is revealed as even worse than he expected when Hammond's voice goes gruff.  [We are aware of that concern, Major.  Please be advised that we will be taking utmost precautions in retrieving you and your ship.]

"That's a relief, sir.  Transmitting coordinates now."

[Roger that.]  He's been returned to Harriman's capable hands.  [Hang tight, Major.  ETA is approximately ten hours.]

Ten hours.

_Oh god, oh thank god..._

McKay, that crazy bastard, actually did it.  He's going home.

  


* * *

He takes the matches out of the emergency kit.  It's the first time he's used them.  He wasn't sure who might be out in the woods looking for him, or what tech they might have at their disposal.  Even a tiny, smokeless fire could have compromised his position to some kind of crazy-sensitive alien infrared.  For the same reason, he's remained in the cloaked jumper as much as possible.

But now he goes out with the matches and McKay's instructions, and digs a little hole in the soft earth beneath a clod of moss.  He burns the paper, careful not to let any of it escape, then crumbles the ash into the soil, fills the hole in, and drops the moss back in place.

_Good as new._

ETA: eight hours.

  


* * *

He's so damned happy to hear that chopper when his ears pick up the distant  _whup whup_ of its blades.  It's the most beautiful sound in the universe, and he's not just saying that because he's an old rotorhead who misses his bird.

It's an eternity before the sound comes near enough that he can look up and actually expect to see it above him in the sky.  And it's not just a chopper, it's  _his_ chopper, or near enough, some variant of the H-53.  And damned right it should be.  Not much else is going to have the power necessary to vertical-lift the damaged jumper out of these trees.

John's been on the giving end of this sort of op so often; he's not sure he likes being on the receiving end.  He'd rather be the guy up there in the pilot's seat with his hand on the cyclic, not the poor bastard dirtside, waiting for a ride.  He wonders how the SGC intends to handle it, if they're even accustomed to doing this kind of thing on their own planet.  

He keeps the SGC on the horn while the chopper sweeps around the coordinates he transmitted, which are close but not dead on: he's not stupid.  And he makes the chopper verify their identity by executing instructions he relays via the SGC -- it's an unusual holding pattern, not one a pilot would choose on whim.

_Shave and a haircut, two bits._

Satisfied, he drops the cloak and fires a flare out the hatch.  Then, and only then, does he safety and holster his 9 mil.

_Door's open guys, c'mon in._

It's approaching twilight again, but he wishes it was darker, so they couldn't see how much he resembles a refugee.  He's got one helluva beard started, and he hates the stiff, grimy feel of a uniform that's been home for the past two weeks.

The chopper hovers while a field medic and Major Carter rope down, then peels away to put down above the tree line, so the rest of the crew can hike in.

Carter, of course, goes straight for the puddle jumper.  "It's good to see you in one piece, Major," she says absently, already kneeling by one of the engine pods.  It's natural that she'd want to inspect the damage with the little daylight she's got left.

The medic salutes, "Sir."  Then, formalities satisfied, he hauls John to sit on a bench in the rear compartment and snaps on a pair of surgical gloves.

_I'm delighted to see you both, too._   
  
The medic makes him drink two bottles of something sugary and metallic tasting -- doubtless full of carbohydrates and electrolytes -- and still threatens to hook him up to an IV.  He's not offered food, but he knows from experience that his stomach probably wouldn't handle it well.

Carter's profile walks past the viewing port as she circles the ship.  John's pretty sure she's scowling.

O'Neill is a surprise.  John's having the cut over his eye inspected (the medic informs him that it needed stitches, that it's going to leave a scar) when the colonel climbs up the rear hatch.

"Sir?"

"As you were," O'Neill jokes.  No one's made a move.  He waves a hand in explanation.  "Carter was anxious to see the jumper, and I was-"

"Bored, sir?" Carter finishes.

"I was going to say  _available_ .  Besides."  He drops some gear and plops down on the bench opposite John and the medic.  "Besides, we didn't know what kind of shape we were going to find you in, so we figured a second pilot with the gene might come in handy."  He squints at John a moment, as if just noticing, and pronounces cheerfully, "You look like hell, by the way."

"Feel like it too, sir," John winces.  It hadn't taken him long to figure out that O'Neill doesn't stand high on protocol.  He's blunt for efficiency's sake, and most often honest, the kind of officer who keeps a public scoreboard in big, neon letters.  John's heard rumors that his career followed a path similar to John's own -- part special ops and part hot-shit pilot -- and that probably goes the rest of the way to explaining why John likes him.  He gathers the feeling is mutual.

O'Neill doesn't pull any of that "boy were we surprised to hear from you" or "nice to see you alive" crap.  God knows John's going to have to deal with enough of it when he gets back to base.  Instead, O'Neill leans over and rummages around in his pack, and pulls out an old-fashioned thermos.  

"Is that-" John begins, licking his lips with naked longing, just as the field medic says, "That's probably not good for him just yet."

O'Neill silences further protests with a withering glare, then gives John the plastic lid, full of coffee that's a day old and barely warm.  John cradles it between his hands like it's the most precious substance on Earth.

Oh yeah, the colonel's been on the giving end of rescues before.

"So what's the news?" O'Neill turns around and barks at Carter, who's done inspecting the exterior and is working her way to the rear access panels.

"Not good sir.  The airframe looks like it's retained its integrity, but one of the engine pods has sustained damage."

"You should see the other guy," John murmurs.  He recalls that particular impact, when he clipped a tree.  "Oh, and Major, I wouldn't go poking around in there if I was you."

He says it just as Carter starts to jiggle loose one of the crystals, and is met with a pop and a shower of sparks that makes the interior lights dim for a moment.  

Carter sends a glance at O'Neill, and he passes it along to John.  John can tell she'd like to bitch him out for whatever she thinks he did to the jumper, but O'Neill intervenes by saying, "I'm sure you have a very long,  _fascinating_ story to tell, but I'm a patient man.  I can wait to hear it back at the SGC with everyone else."

_Thank you, sir.  _ "One of the crystals is in backwards," he warns anyway, because if he's learned anything about scientists during the last couple weeks, it's that they often lack the sense to leave dangerous stuff the hell alone.  Carter might have oak leaves on her shoulders, but John's seen her get this  _glint_ in her eyes around alien tech, like it's so fan-fucking-tastic that she's just popped a woody in her shorts.

"Which is all the more reason we shouldn't  _touch it_ until we can get the jumper back to a secure facility and figure out exactly what went wrong," O'Neill nods sagely and crosses his arms.  It's a suggestion but it isn't, and Carter stiffens like she's holding back a sullen  _yes sir_ .  She does close the access panel.

O'Neill probably isn't going to give him any more coffee, so he rations what he's got.  The little sips bring him back to thoughts of Rodney, and suddenly he's wondering how much he'll be able to omit from his story, or whether he should omit anything at all.  Then it's like cresting the first hill on a roller coaster -- zoom! -- his mind is off.  He thinks about the scrap of paper with Rodney's instructions, already destroyed.  He thinks about Rodney's phone number, indelibly lodged in his head.  (John's going to have to do some verification when he gets back, but he's fairly certain that it's a prime number, and Jesus  _wept_ but what kind of nerd do you have to be to get yourself a vanity phone number like that?)

He tries not to think about what that makes  _him_ for wondering how many prime numbers on average are available per area code.

The medic's pushing up his sleeve, and damn, but there's a definite demarcation part of the way up his forearm, where the dirt stops.  Then there's the cool dab of disinfectant and the pinch of a needle.  Then another.  Painkillers and... antibiotics, probably.  The guy tries to stick on a band-aid, but John rolls his sleeve back down too quickly.  " 's fine, thanks."

Carter's reached her conclusion.  She sits down next to O'Neill, but she's watching John.

"Well?" O'Neill huffs.

"Sir, I don't think we should move the ship until I've had a chance to examine it in daylight.  There could be hairline hull fractures that I'm just not seeing..."

"And in the  _meantime_ ?" he groans.

Carter hesitates, "I'd like to know why the cloak is still functional when so many of the other systems are down, before I recommend turning it back on."

John could tell her, if he felt like shooting himself in the foot.  He doesn't.  He finishes his coffee, just as he realizes it's not going to help him one bit.  Adrenaline and the sugar in the drinks gave him a boost, but he's still headed for a crash.  The descent is just a little less steep now.

"Sheppard.  How long did you say you kept the cloak running?" O'Neill asks.

_I didn't say,_ he smirks, or tries to.  "Thirteen days."

O'Neill shrugs at Carter like the decision's out of his hands, and goes to the forward compartment to raise the cloak again.  Then he pivots around and claps once for attention.  "So!  I think it's safe to say that Carter wants to stay and Sheppard wants to... get the hell out of here."

"Sir."

"Yes, sir."

"I bet we can work something out."

  


* * *

John insists that he's okay to walk back to the chopper.  Wallace, the medic, had this plan involving a rescue litter and the tail winch and no, just  _no_ .  They compromise by walking slowly, John with one arm around Wallace's shoulders, while Wallace mans the thousand-watt flashlight.

The pilot, he notices as he's hauled into the chopper, is only a captain.  John would  _so_ steal this flight from him if he was in any shape to do it.

"Sir."

"Captain.  I think I'm just... gonna..."  John motions to the back, where he pulls on a headset.  Two bunks are already lowered in the rear compartment.  He picks the bottom one, curls on his side with a hiss of soreness, and lets his eyes rest.

The next time he's conscious, they're in the air and have been for some time.

He listens to the radio chatter.  (And thinks about Rodney listening in, even though they're six hundred miles and a secure channel away.)  There's a second heavy lifter going back for O'Neill and Carter, along with SG-11, to extract the jumper from the woods and run decon on the site.  Not a splinter of metal, not a fleck of paint can remain behind to say a spaceship from another planet ever crashed there.

The SGC is handling this one close to their chest, using all internal staff, when ordinarily they'd farm some of the work out to other divisions.  Hammond's more than just aware of the possibility of sabotage.  He's acting as if he one hundred percent believes it.

  


* * *

Back on base, he's shipped off to the infirmary, but not before wheedling a shower out of the deal.  It's the most amazing shower in the history of running water, and the shave isn't bad either.  Food they insist on arranging for him.

He's glad to be back at the SGC proper; he's never been fond of Area 51, and now he realizes he's started to think of it as a place that isn't safe.  (They were overseeing the jumper project, after all.)  He wants to be somewhere he can rest and recuperate without constantly glancing over his shoulder.

Fraiser takes one look at him and sticks him with an IV anyway, even before taking his vitals.  His chest is x-rayed and he's pumped full of more antibiotics and made to stay in bed for three days.  Turns out to be fine by him, since he's moved on to the coughing phase of pneumonia, and Christ on a bicycle but his ribs hurt when he does it.

At least he's warm, finally.  And when he isn't sleeping, he has a small but steady stream of curious visitors and well-wishers to keep him occupied.

He still hasn't been called upon to impart the whole story.  They've made do with the snatches Hammond got out of him that first afternoon, standing in the infirmary over his bed, radiating concern.  John figures some of them have to be impatient as hell by now, and that the only reason he hasn't been abducted to the conference room is the watchful presence of the lovely Dr Frasier.  His charm doesn't work on her any more than it does on Carter, but they have an understanding: she lets him pretend it does.  And damn, she's going above and beyond the call of duty on this one.  He really does owe her that dinner he's threatened.

On the fourth day, he's discharged back to what passes for his quarters when he's stationed at the SGC.  His things have made their way back from Nevada, but everything is packed wrong.  He just hopes that whoever searched his stuff used some pretty advanced hardware.  Only alien tech would detect potential alien threats, and coming out of Area 51 there's no telling what might have hitched a ride.

He gives up trying to figure out what to do about Rodney, at least until he's got a better handle on his own situation.  It'd be real stupid to yank the guy off thin ice, only to find out that the ice John's standing on is just as thin.  And having to support twice the weight.

  


* * *

When he's called to the conference room at last, everyone's kinda glancing at him sympathetically out of the corners of their eyes, and he knows he still looks like hell.  The dark bruises beneath his eyes haven't entirely faded, he's taken to holding his shoulders rounded against the pain in his chest, and his uniform doesn't hang on him quite the way it should.  It's gonna be a while yet before he can stand to look at himself squarely in a mirror.

He wears the same SGC uniform every other field officer at the table does, except he lacks the patch on his right sleeve designating his gate team.  He isn't assigned to one, nor is he likely to be while he's the back-up gene carrier for Colonel O'Neill.  They generally aren't allowed offworld at the same time, and O'Neill's offworld a lot.

John would cut his gene out himself -- if it was possible and he knew what part of his DNA to take the knife to -- if it meant getting back on a team.  It's been eight months and he still misses Mitch and Dex and the rest of his crew like a jagged, gaping wound.  The only blessing is that they were whole the last time he saw them; Holland is with them in all the memories he has.

The question of what to do about McKay is answered for him, when General Hammond passes out briefing folders.  He flips his open, and the first thing he sees is a photograph clipped to a dossier.  He knows who it is without having to read the name.  Something about the unhappy slant of the man's mouth, the frosty, critical blue eyes screams Rodney to him.  Just staring at the photograph, he can replay a McKay outburst in his head, right down to the belittling epithets and the pace of his words, more relentless than automatic weapon fire.

"Eight days ago," the general begins, "one of the servers operating out of this facility suffered a security breach.  Major Sheppard's credentials were used in the attack.  Several sensitive and potentially incriminating documents were among the five hundred and twenty-six that were illegally accessed.  Including the schematics for the gateship.

"The day after you disappeared, Major, Dr Ward and Lt Masters failed to arrive at their posts.  Their whereabouts remain unknown.  But we put two and two together and started to have some serious concerns about your safety.

"Which leads us to this man.  What can you tell us about him?"

John closes the folder after no more than glancing at it.  Of course they caught Rodney.  He expected that.  What he never imagined was that the SGC would think Rodney was collaborating with the saboteurs.

If he does this from memory, it's going to be all the more impressive.  He's counting on that.  He doesn't have much else to work with.

They're all watching him, all waiting with various visible levels of impatience.  John takes a steadying breath.  "His name is Rodney McKay.  Canadian, but schooled in the States.  Holds dual doctorates in astrophysics and engineering.  Communications expert.  About a year and a half ago, he took a contract position with the Air Force, developing server security protocols.  He was offered a permanent position but declined.  Prior to that, he was employed in the R&amp;D arm of a multinational telecom."

_He likes cats, is allergic to citrus, prefers Batman over Superman, and has the tenacity of a blood hound when he's running an idea into the ground.  Oh yeah, and he's got a really big satellite dish._

Hammond clasps his hands and leans forward.  "You want to tell us how you know all this, Major?"

John acts quickly to close the deal.  "He's not in with the saboteurs, if that's what you're thinking.  In fact, I owe Dr McKay my life.  He's the only reason I'm sitting here today, the only reason I got out of those woods alive."

Hammond's frowning now, because John's thrown him a curve, but says, "Go on."

So John tells them.  About switching to an open frequency, in desperation, when he couldn't get a message through, not knowing his radio was crippled like everything else.  About the jubilant voice that erupted from his speakers where no civilian had a right to be.  About agonizing over the decision to risk continued contact.

He leaves out the part about the slow dance he initiated, two wary creatures circling each other in ever-tightening spirals.  He kind of neglects to mention the part where he didn't unwillingly put his life in McKay's hands.

"When it became obvious that I was in sore need of assistance, I requested that Dr McKay contact General Hammond with information regarding my whereabouts.  At the time, I was unaware of Dr McKay's prior relationship with the Air Force, and I... underestimated his ingenuity."   _And his paranoia._   "He did a little research of his own, on me, and managed to locate my obituary.

"He accused me of being a fraud, part of a plot orchestrated by one of his rivals.  Fearing for his own safety, he considered withdrawing his offer of aid.  The server was my fault, sir.  I needed to regain his trust, and I couldn't think of another way to prove that I was who I said I was."

"It isn't your fault, Major.  You may have shown him where to look, and  _unwittingly-"_ Hammond stresses it like no one believes it, but it's going down as the official story anyway, "-provided him your credentials, but if Dr McKay chose to perform an illegal act with them, that's his concern, not yours."

Carter pipes up, "I'm just wondering how he did it.  Even with the knowledge he had of the security protocol, it should have taken him  _much_ longer than it did to hack the server."

"Like I said," John drawls at her with a slow smile, "it's a mistake to underestimate McKay."  He realizes that could sound defensive, so he slouches more pointedly in his seat.  "Look, he even told me he could trace the direction and strength of my signal, and pinpoint my location to within a hundred square miles."  Slight exaggeration when one rounded down from kilometers, but oh well.  "If he'd been working with the saboteurs, he would have told them where to find me, not help me repair the jumper."

Carter again, in disbelief, "Wait a minute.  You're saying that McKay-"  And she says it kind of like Mc _-KAY._   "-is the one who tampered with the power system in the jumper?"

"No ma'am.  I've never actually met the man, and he's never seen the jumper, never laid a finger on it."

O'Neill starts to show interest for the first time since the briefing began.  He snaps his fingers and points at John.  "The blueprints.  He walked you through the repairs.  Sort of like... phoning tech support." 

Carter and one of the scientists out of Area 51 -- Dr Ingram is his name -- begin to talk on top of each other.

"That's impossible.  There is no way he could have studied the schematics for less than a week and-"

"Major, do you have any idea how dangerous it was to-"

Hammond wades in.  "Major Sheppard was aware of both the risk to his own life, and to the SGC if he allowed the jumper to fall into the wrong hands.  I'm sure he made his decisions accordingly.  Major, please continue."

"Yes sir."  He drops the first name carelessly, for impact.  "I informed Rodney that the regular channels might not be secure.  He was searching for an alternate means to contact General Hammond,  _at my request_ , when he retrieved the jumper schematics from our server.  That was about the time I stopped... underestimating his diligence, and started believing him when he promised he'd get me home."

"That he did, Major.  That he did."  Hammond spares him a glance, and it's a double whammy -- reassurance and regret don't go well together, especially not from your CO.  "However, the fact remains that Dr McKay is now in possession of highly sensitive information regarding our operations, and has exhibited a troubling tendency to disregard the Air Force's confidentiality in the past."

"Yes sir."  He can't argue with the truth.

"Major, in your opinion, how strong is the risk he'll go public with what he knows?"

Translation: Do they send in a team to pick up McKay now, or do they just keep him under surveillance until they can decide what to do with him?  It isn't a question John expects -- in light of the circumstances, he figures his opinion is worth exactly squat -- so he has to give it some thought.  "Sir, he was very strongly opposed to the SGC having any knowledge of his involvement with my rescue.  He's very well aware of the potential consequences of his actions.  I believe that if he's allowed to think he's in the clear, he'll remain quiet and stay put.  But as I said, he's exceedingly intelligent and resourceful.  If we back him into a corner prematurely..."

O'Neill understands where this is headed.  He raises an eyebrow at Hammond.  "Sheppard's got a good point.  There's no telling what kind of dead man's switch McKay has in place.  It'd be like... like trying to silence  _Carter_ if she was determined to be heard."

Carter pulls a face like she can't tell if that's a compliment or not.  But oddly enough she makes the suggestion before John has to.  "It is possible that we could use him, sir."

"Go on," Hammond urges.

"Well sir, his work on the security protocol was sound," she admits grudgingly.  "As far as it went.  The problem wasn't his abilities or his skills, it was his attitude.  If we had the leverage to guarantee his good conduct..."

Dr Ingram crosses his arms and gives her a dark look, and suddenly John figures out why she's doing it.  Someone's hiding something from him, and he wants to know what it is.  He enters the fray from the flank.  "We're all aware that the X-303 is of vital importance, and that most of Area 51's resources are currently committed to its development."

"Major Sheppard," Ingram turns on him, "if there is any one thing we're all aware of, it's your position on the identification and study of the Ancient technology we've acquired.  But possessing a particularly strong expression of the gene doesn't make you  _qualified_ to criticize how we run our projects."

_That's me, Area 51's on switch.  Touch this, make that glow, fly the jumper how and where we tell you.  Otherwise, stand in the corner and look decorative until we need you again.  
_   
Hammond slaps his briefing folder down on the table and instantly has the attention of everyone in the room.  "I don't believe it was Major Sheppard's intent to criticize," he says firmly, because this is the SGC damn it, and they look out for their own.  "But he is correct about one thing.  It's only a matter of time until Anubis turns his attention back to Earth.  The completion of the X-303 is our top priority.  We can't spare any of the resources  _we currently have at our disposal_ to repair the jumper.  The Gateship Project is officially on hold.  Major Sheppard, you're being reassigned to the SGC, effective immediately.

"As for Dr McKay, I'll be sure to read your individual reports and factor them into my decision."  He stands, puts his knuckles on the conference table and leans forward, sweeping his eyes around the room.  End of discussion, full stop.  "Gentlemen.  Dismissed."

  


* * *

John wonders if he should be carrying a white flag, since he's off to negotiate a treaty.

O'Neill has an office, but he's never in it.  The joke around the SGC is that he doesn't even know where it is.  It's easiest to run him down in the hallway and ask for a word in private.  Well, words -- O'Neill is liable to take take a person literally, just to be perverse.

The nearest empty space is Dr Jackson's office.  The colonel knows this because he and Dr Jackson just exited it, blazing in opposite directions.  Nevertheless, he doesn't look too inconvenienced to duck back inside, taking John with him.

He takes a second look at John and shuts the door.  "Major, what can I do for you?"

"It's about Dr McKay, sir."

O'Neill holds up a hand.  "Ah ah!  Let me rephrase then: What can you do for me?"

"Sir?"

"I know what you're thinking.  And believe me, I understand the appeal of having your very own brainy know-it-all to watch your backside.  Or in my case...  _two_ brainy know-it-alls...  So don't think you have to convince me."

"Then-" John begins, because honestly?  He considered that his largest obstacle.

"Ingram will fight it."

Dr Ingram, right.  Area 51's resident alien tech expert, the one who fosters an us-versus-them mentality in the scientists and military personnel under his supervision.  "I take it he and Dr McKay didn't see eye to eye during Rodney's brief employment?"  If so, John's estimation of Rodney just jumped up another notch.

"I don't-"  O'Neill scowls.  "-think they ever met more than the once.  But yeah, cats and dogs.  Oil and water.  Michigan and Ohio State."

John offers a bland smile.  O'Neill's the rare officer who seems to prefer frankness, and probably won't bust John's nuts for it.  "Well sir, that could explain why it felt like there was something being... held back from the briefing this morning."

O'Neill hisses.  "Ouch!  You, uh, caught that, did you?"

John just stays quiet and passive, not on parade rest but close to it.

"Right."  The colonel moves around the office, touching items on Daniel's desk, until he finally settles on a wooden statue to roll in his hands.  "Here's the thing.  McKay, who is not on the jumper project and has no prior experience with Ancient technology, was able to spot problems on the blueprints that escaped the 'expert' members of Ingram's team.  In light of the whispers of sabotage circulating, I'm sure you can see how that would make him-"  He pulls a wry expression at the understatement.  "-unhappy."

"Yes sir."

"And that's just the good news!  The bad news is, Area 51's had the jumper back in their hands for two days.  They've been trying to understand what McKay did to it-"

"What I did to it, sir."

"Okay, what  _you_ did to it, following McKay's instructions.  Without knowing how he- you did what you did, the original jumper team has been running simulations to try to duplicate the results."

"I take it that's not going well."  John tries not to be smug about it, but it's oh so hard.

O'Neill checks his watch.  "As of the briefing this morning, they hadn't managed -- in simulation -- to successfully restore the radio without... well... poof."   He makes an exploding gesture with his hands.  

John gets the message.  Poof.  That could have been him.  "Doesn't matter if they ever manage it or not," he shrugs.  "The project's on hold indefinitely."

"Because we can't divert any of the resources  _currently_ at our disposal," O'Neill reminds him.  John thinks it's his way of hinting that he knows where the chips are going to fall on this one.  

If that's the case, John's not entirely sure why he's  _here_ .  Why would O'Neill play along, let him advocate an idea O'Neill's already backing?  Unless...

The colonel smirks, and that's when the trap springs shut.  "Here's the deal.  I'll talk to Hammond, see what I can do about getting McKay on board."

"Yes sir.  What else?"

He replaces the statue and comes around the desk, closing in on John.  "I want you to take Ancient tech fondling duties off my hands.  Entirely."

_Ouch._   Even Rodney might not be worth that price.

"I know it's a shitty job, but neither you or the puddle jumper are in any shape to fly.  In the meantime, we need to put you to work  _somewhere_ .  And-"

"Better me than you?" John finishes for him.

"Exactly!  Now, you're going to have to work hard to convince those guys that your magic touch is as good as mine."  O'Neill wags his eyebrows.  "Well,  _almost_ as good."

John resists the urge to sigh.  "Yes sir."

O'Neill reaches out to give him a good, hard clap on the shoulder, but remembers John's injuries at the last second and pats it instead.  "Hang in there, Sheppard.  It's not forever.  Beckett's working on his treatment to artificially induce the gene, so-"   
  
That's when Dr Jackson yanks the office door open, and rolls his eyes like he's not at all surprised to find O'Neill inside.  "Excuse me Major Sheppard," he nods to John.  And, "Jack, you told me you'd meet me in the lab ten minutes ago."  He strides over, takes a grip on O'Neill's collar, and frog marches him for the door.  "Oh.  I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

"We were just finished."  As the colonel's being dragged backwards, he grins at John, unrepentant.  "I'd lend you my handbook on the proper maintenance and training of scientists, but... you can see how well that's going for me."

  


* * *

It's another week before Hammond calls John into his office, and John's sweating the verdict so bad that he never wants to find out, while at the same time his anxiety is gonna kill him if he doesn't find out  _right now_ .

Somewhere along the way, maybe even at that initial briefing, he decided not to contact Rodney and let him know he's okay.  However this goes down, he can't forget that McKay is damned smart and crazy paranoid.  (Or is that crazy smart and damned paranoid?)  Either way, he could tip McKay off without even realizing it.

"General."

"At ease, Major."  Hammond reaches into his desk drawer and withdraws an enormous bundle of documents.

_Oh hell._

"I understand Colonel O'Neill has already discussed your new assignment with you."

Bewildered, John has to answer, "Yes sir."  They discussed several things, and he has no idea which one the general is referring to.

"Good.  Dr Fraiser thinks it'll be another three weeks before she'll be comfortable pronouncing you fit for active duty.  That's your time frame."  He pushes the bundle over to John, who picks it up but doesn't flip back the cover.  It looks like mission particulars, and god knows what else.

"Sir?"

"Canada has, at present, no knowledge of the Stargate Program.  The existence of the gateship is not something we are inclined to divulge to them just yet.  Therefore, the last thing we want is to become tied up in an extradition process that would require us to provide evidence of the very thing we want to remain a secret.

"You have until the end of the month.  If, by then, you haven't procured Dr McKay's full cooperation, I want him retrieved by force."

"Yes sir," John gulps.  He's fairly certain that none of his extensive training has prepared him for  _this_ covert extraction.

"Use whatever means you feel necessary, but at the very least I suggest you take a chopper."  Yeah, John's already a step ahead of him there.  Commercial flights aren't ideal for kidnapping political prisoners across international boundaries.  "And a zat.  And for god's sake, don't offer him anything unless you're convinced you can live with him.  If he cooperates, he's going to be your responsibility."

_Motherfucking hell, what has O'Neill done to me?  
_   
John wants to know, just for the sake of clarification.  "And if I decide I can't?"

"That's what the zat is for.  Are we clear, Major?"

"Perfectly, sir."

Hammond stands, and escorts him for the door with an arm hovering almost around John's shoulders.  "Then all that's left to say is: Good luck, Major.  I have a feeling you're going to need it."   



End file.
